Dragonstone
Harsh sunlight streamed directly into the ruined, drafty expanse of the Great Hall.
Rhaenyra Targaryen sat upon the high seat, her face a mask of ashen fury.
Standing before her were Daemon, Corlys, Mysaria, and several of the island's minor vassals.
Every one of them looked grim.
"Say it again," Rhaenyra's voice was icy, dangerously quiet.
"What happened to Sara?"
Mysaria swallowed hard, her usual composure slipping.
"Your Grace... before dawn this morning, the sentries discovered... Sara, riding Silverwing and leading Vermithor, has left."
"Left?" Queen Rhaenyra's anger flared into a sharp, cutting rebuke.
"What do you mean, left?"
"She... she just flew away."
"She mounted her dragon and flew east."
"East? Toward Tyrosh?"
"Presumably."
A deathly silence fell over the hall. Then, Rhaenyra shot up from her seat and slammed her hand onto the painted table.
The thunderous crack made the heavy iron candlesticks rattle.
"These bastards!" the Queen roared, her face twisting in rage.
"These treacherous, ungrateful curs! I gave her a noble name, I gave her a position, I recognized her son, is this how she repays me?!"
Daemon stood to the side, his expression dark as thunder. He had meticulously planned to intercept the Hightower host and assassinate Daeron.
That strategy absolutely required Sara and Silverwing. Now that the bastard girl had fled, the plan was dead before it had even begun.
"Why would she run?" Daemon asked, his voice tight.
"Is there any reason?"
Mysaria shook her head helplessly.
"Unknown. The sentries reported she left before daybreak. No one saw her leave, and no one spoke to her. It was as if... as if it were an entirely sudden decision."
"A sudden decision?" Daemon sneered coldly.
"Do you truly believe that?"
Mysaria found no words to answer.
Corlys remained silently brooding. He remembered the exact way Sara had knelt and sworn fealty to the Queen just days ago.
He had seen the desperate, genuine fervor in that young woman's eyes. Would a mother like that truly flee into the night for no reason?
"Investigate immediately," Rhaenyra commanded through gritted teeth.
"Send word to Luke in Tyrosh at once. Find out why she fled and what she intends to do. This low-born creature..."
The Queen suppressed her soaring rage and did not finish the sentence, but everyone in the hall understood her dark meaning.
Mysaria nodded swiftly.
"I will see to it at once."
Silence descended over the hall once more.
Rhaenyra sank back heavily into her carved chair, closed her eyes, and took a deep, shuddering breath.
Her head had begun to throb again, that familiar, needle-like pain piercing her temples.
"Daemon," Rhaenyra spoke suddenly, her voice exhausted.
"Mmh?"
"Tell me... did we make a mistake?"
Daemon looked at her but did not speak. Rhaenyra opened her red-rimmed eyes and looked directly at her husband.
"Did we give them too much? In their bones, they are still whelps born from the mud. No matter how much you give them, they can never truly be tamed."
Daemon was silent for a long moment before answering.
"Perhaps. But it is useless to speak of this now; we must find a solution."
He had never been fond of the idea of letting lowborn bastards claim dragons.
Jacaerys had initiated the Dragonseed plan entirely on his own, and Daemon had only found out after the fact; he had been utterly furious then, but Jacaerys was dead... even accepting these bastards into their ranks later was only a desperate reaction to the overwhelming pressure Aemond exerted upon the Blacks.
- - - - - - - - - -
The Disputed Lands.
Deep within the primeval forest, the golden evening sun filtered through the dense gaps in the canopy.
This sprawling, untamed area was now the sovereign territory of Volantis.
Ancient trees reached toward the heavens, thick vines interlaced as serpents, and wild beasts roamed freely where humans rarely dared to set foot.
But recently, the forest had become lively, not because of newly arrived settlers, but because a dragon now lived deep within the woods.
Seasmoke.
A pale, silver-grey dragon that had once belonged to Laenor Velaryon.
Ever since Laenor's "faked death," Seasmoke had remained a riderless, mournful beast.
The recent, brutal Battle of Dragonstone had deeply startled Seasmoke, causing him to flee the island entirely.
He instinctively wanted to find his master.
Despite not seeing Laenor for years, the deep, ancient bond of Valyrian blood allowed the dragon to know that his rider was still alive.
Seasmoke had wandered across the Eastern continent before finally making a temporary home in this dense forest within the Disputed Lands.
Once rumors of his presence spread, the Volantenes were ecstatic.
A riderless dragon! If they could tame it, Volantis would possess a dragon of its very own!
Thus, the arrogant nobles of the Black Wall had scrambled into the forest one after another, all eagerly attempting to subdue Seasmoke.
And one after another, they had died horribly.
The first was a young, boastful noble in his thirties who rode in on a fine stallion with a dozen armed attendants, swaggering confidently into the woods.
He stood proudly before Seasmoke, loudly attempting to recite ancient High Valyrian incantations to make the beast submit.
Seasmoke let out a bored yawn, then instantly reduced the man to charcoal with a single, casual blast of dragonfire.
The terrified attendants scattered; half were trampled or burned as they fled.
The second was an elderly noble in his fifties, proudly boasting of his ancient Valyrian bloodline.
He was slightly smarter, bringing lavish gifts, several live cattle, to offer to the dragon. Seasmoke happily ate the cattle, and then promptly ate the noble.
The third, the fourth, the fifth...
Over twenty foolish aristocrats died in rapid succession. The Black Wall nobles of Volantis finally grew terrified.
They no longer sent their own blood to their deaths; instead, they dispatched a military patrol to formally blockade the forest.
The patrol didn't dare approach the beast; they merely circled the perimeter to prevent anyone else from entering.
But the blockade was useless. The forest was simply too vast to truly seal off.
Local villagers and passing travelers often snuck in from a safe distance, risking their lives to catch a glimpse of the legendary dragon.
Today, several figures arrived at the edge of the dense tree line. The leader wore a heavy black cloak, his face completely obscured.
Two Black faction scouts followed closely behind him, men directly under Mysaria's command.
"My Lord," a scout whispered nervously, "he's just inside. Not far ahead, and you'll see it."
The cloaked figure nodded silently and continued forward.
They wove through the massive ancient trees, crossed a bubbling stream, and climbed a rocky ridge. Finally, they saw Seasmoke.
The silver-grey dragon occupied a sunlit clearing, his massive body curled up like a small mountain. His eyes were half-closed; he seemed to be peacefully napping.
Sunlight hit his pale scales, reflecting a brilliant silver light so beautiful it momentarily took one's breath away.
"My Lord, look."
The scout pointed cautiously into the distance.
The cloaked figure followed his finger and saw several suspicious figures, local villagers who had snuck in to see the dragon.
They were hiding behind thick bushes, stretching their necks to get a better view, whispering excitedly to each other.
"Look, look, it moved!"
"Quiet! If it finds us, we're finished!"
"I heard over twenty rich Volantenes died trying to tame it."
"Serves them right! Those Valyrian nobles think they're true Dragonlords?"
"Is a dragon really that easy to ride?"
"I wish I could ride a dragon..."
"Go back to your dreams, fool!"
The cloaked figure listened to their chatter quietly without making a single sound. It was only after the villagers had cautiously crept away that he slowly walked forward into the clearing.
"My Lord!" the scout cried out in a panicked hiss.
"Danger!"
The cloaked figure ignored him and continued his steady approach.
Seasmoke immediately sensed the intrusion and snapped his eyes open.
Those massive draconic eyes, glowing like two golden lanterns, fixed intensely on the approaching figure.
The dragon let out a low, rumbling growl, a clear warning:
'Come any closer, and I burn you.'
The figure stopped and slowly pulled back the heavy hood of his cloak.
Sunlight hit his face, revealing exquisite features framed by silver hair and striking purple eyes.
Laenor Velaryon.
He looked at Seasmoke, his eyes brimming with complex, heavy emotions. Seasmoke looked back at him.
A flash of utter confusion crossed the dragon's golden eyes. Then, the confusion instantly morphed into sheer, unadulterated joy.
He recognized him. This was his true master.
Seasmoke let out a mountain-shaking roar, but it wasn't a roar of anger; it was pure excitement.
He rose to his full height, spreading his massive silver wings, and rushed eagerly toward Laenor.
The hiding scouts were so terrified their legs turned to jelly, entirely convinced the man was about to be devoured alive.
But Seasmoke did not bite. He lunged to a halt right in front of Laenor, lowering his massive, scaled head and affectionately nuzzling his body, letting out soft, rumbling whimpers.
The sound was almost like a dog's sob.
Laenor reached out, gently stroking the pale scales; they were ice-cold with a hard, metallic texture.
"Seasmoke," he whispered, his voice breaking.
"I'm sorry."
Seasmoke thrashed his body in excitement, his heavy tail inadvertently knocking over a patch of young trees.
Laenor hugged his dragon's massive head, closed his eyes, and let his tears flow silently. He thought of his mother, Rhaenys.
The proud woman who had struggled and fought for him her entire life.
He had recently received a raven from his father, Corlys.
The letter was brutally short, but every single word stabbed into his heart like a Valyrian dagger: Your mother is dead, killed by Aemond. Come back... son. We need you.
A year ago, he had also received a frantic letter from his former wife, Rhaenyra.
It was long, detailing that Jacaerys was dead, Joffrey was dead, and little Lucerys was permanently disfigured; she pleaded that the Blacks needed him, and that she needed him.
Jacaerys, Joffrey, Lucerys. His three sons in name.
They had lovingly called him father for many years. Hearing of their horrific deaths, his heart had not been unmoved.
He was sad, yes, but not utterly devastated.
But his mother, Rhaenys, was different. She was the one who bore him and raised him.
She was the one who patiently taught him to walk, to speak, to ride, and to shoot.
She was the mother whose heart would ache until she cried every single time he was hurt as a boy.
And now she was dead. Killed by Aemond.
That arrogant sixteen-year-old bastard, that kinslayer, that monster whose hands were completely stained with the blood of his own kin.
Laenor slowly opened his eyes, and the deep sorrow within them had hardened into a burning, unquenchable fire.
He released Seasmoke's head and vaulted effortlessly into the familiar saddle on his back. Seasmoke unfurled his silver wings in excitement, ready to take flight at any moment.
Laenor looked down at the two trembling scouts and spoke in a heavy, resolute voice.
"Go back. Tell Lord Corlys and Queen Rhaenyra..."
The scouts stared up at him, dazed.
"From this day forward," Laenor shook his head, murmuring to himself in quiet sorrow, "my name is Addam."
Then, Seasmoke unleashed a thunderous roar, beat his massive wings, and launched into the sky.
The birds in the forest took flight in a massive panic, and wild beasts fled blindly in all directions.
The two scouts stood rooted to the spot, watching in awe as the silver-grey dragon flew higher and higher until it vanished completely into the clouds.
Laenor rode Seasmoke, soaring high above the cloud layer.
The wind roared past his ears, and the sunlight felt warm and alive on his skin. It had been a very long time since he had felt this true sensation of flight.
Ever since his faked death, he had been idling away his days in Pentos with his lover...
Now, Addam finally understood the crushing weight of the responsibility he had to bear.